 | Lays of the Western Gael, and Other Poems |  |
125
VERSIONS FROM THE IRISH.
136
THE DOWNFALL OF THE GAEL.
My heart is in woe,
And my soul deep in trouble,—
For the mighty are low,
And abased are the noble:
And my soul deep in trouble,—
For the mighty are low,
And abased are the noble:
The Sons of the Gael
Are in exile and mourning,
Worn, weary, and pale,
As spent pilgrims returning;
Are in exile and mourning,
Worn, weary, and pale,
As spent pilgrims returning;
Or men who, in flight
From the field of disaster,
Beseech the black night
On their flight to fall faster;
From the field of disaster,
Beseech the black night
On their flight to fall faster;
Or seamen aghast
When their planks gape asunder,
And the waves fierce and fast
Tumble through in hoarse thunder;
When their planks gape asunder,
And the waves fierce and fast
Tumble through in hoarse thunder;
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Or men whom we see
That have got their death-omen—
Such wretches are we
In the chains of our foemen!
That have got their death-omen—
Such wretches are we
In the chains of our foemen!
Our courage is fear,
Our nobility vileness,
Our hope is despair,
And our comeliness foulness.
Our nobility vileness,
Our hope is despair,
And our comeliness foulness.
There is mist on our heads,
And a cloud chill and hoary
Of black sorrow, sheds
An eclipse on our glory,
And a cloud chill and hoary
Of black sorrow, sheds
An eclipse on our glory,
From Boyne to the Linn
Has the mandate been given,
That the children of Finn
From their country be driven.
Has the mandate been given,
That the children of Finn
From their country be driven.
That the sons of the king—
Oh, the treason and malice!—
Shall no more ride the ring
In their own native valleys;
Oh, the treason and malice!—
Shall no more ride the ring
In their own native valleys;
No more shall repair
Where the hill foxes tarry,
Nor forth to the air
Fling the hawk at her quarry:
Where the hill foxes tarry,
Nor forth to the air
Fling the hawk at her quarry:
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For the plain shall be broke
By the share of the stranger,
And the stone-mason's stroke
Tell the woods of their danger;
By the share of the stranger,
And the stone-mason's stroke
Tell the woods of their danger;
The green hills and shore
Be with white keeps disfigured,
And the Moat of Rathmore
Be the Saxon churl's haggard!
Be with white keeps disfigured,
And the Moat of Rathmore
Be the Saxon churl's haggard!
The land of the lakes
Shall no more know the prospect
Of valleys and brakes—
So transform'd is her aspect!
Shall no more know the prospect
Of valleys and brakes—
So transform'd is her aspect!
The Gael cannot tell,
In the uprooted wild-wood
And red ridgy dell,
The old nurse of his childhood:
In the uprooted wild-wood
And red ridgy dell,
The old nurse of his childhood:
The nurse of his youth
Is in doubt as she views him,
If the wan wretch, in truth,
Be the child of her bosom.
Is in doubt as she views him,
If the wan wretch, in truth,
Be the child of her bosom.
We starve by the board,
And we thirst amid wassail—
For the guest is the lord,
And the host is the vassal!
And we thirst amid wassail—
For the guest is the lord,
And the host is the vassal!
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Through the woods let us roam,
Through the wastes wild and barren;
We are strangers at home!
We are exiles in Erin!
Through the wastes wild and barren;
We are strangers at home!
We are exiles in Erin!
And Erin's a bark
O'er the wide waters driven!
And the tempest howls dark,
And her side planks are riven!
O'er the wide waters driven!
And the tempest howls dark,
And her side planks are riven!
And in billows of might
Swell the Saxon before her,—
Unite, oh, unite!
Or the billows burst o'er her!
Swell the Saxon before her,—
Unite, oh, unite!
Or the billows burst o'er her!
140
O'BYRNE'S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW.
God be with the Irish host,
Never be their battle lost!
For, in battle, never yet
Have they basely earn'd defeat.
Never be their battle lost!
For, in battle, never yet
Have they basely earn'd defeat.
Host of armour red and bright.
May ye fight a valiant fight
For the green spot of the earth,
For the land that gave you birth.
May ye fight a valiant fight
For the green spot of the earth,
For the land that gave you birth.
Who in Erin's cause would stand,
Brothers of the avenging band,
He must wed immortal quarrel,
Pain and sweat and bloody peril.
Brothers of the avenging band,
He must wed immortal quarrel,
Pain and sweat and bloody peril.
On the mountain bare and steep,
Snatching short but pleasant sleep,
Then, ere sunrise, from his eyrie,
Swooping on the Saxon quarry.
Snatching short but pleasant sleep,
Then, ere sunrise, from his eyrie,
Swooping on the Saxon quarry.
What although you've fail'd to keep
Liffey's plain or Tara's steep,
Cashel's pleasant streams to save,
Or the meads of Croghan Maev;
Liffey's plain or Tara's steep,
Cashel's pleasant streams to save,
Or the meads of Croghan Maev;
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Want of conduct lost the town,
Broke the white-wall'd castle down,
Moira lost, and old Taltin,
And let the conquering stranger in.
Broke the white-wall'd castle down,
Moira lost, and old Taltin,
And let the conquering stranger in.
'Twas the want of right command,
Not the lack of heart or hand,
Left your hills and plains to-day
'Neath the strong Clan Saxon's sway.
Not the lack of heart or hand,
Left your hills and plains to-day
'Neath the strong Clan Saxon's sway.
Ah, had heaven never sent
Discord for our punishment,
Triumphs few o'er Erin's host
Had Clan London now to boast!
Discord for our punishment,
Triumphs few o'er Erin's host
Had Clan London now to boast!
Woe is me, 'tis God's decree
Strangers have the victory:
Irishmen may now be found
Outlaws upon Irish ground.
Strangers have the victory:
Irishmen may now be found
Outlaws upon Irish ground.
Like a wild beast in his den
Lies the chief by hill and glen,
While the strangers, proud and savage,
Criffan's richest valleys ravage.
Lies the chief by hill and glen,
While the strangers, proud and savage,
Criffan's richest valleys ravage.
Woe is me, the foul offence,
Treachery and violence,
Done against my people's rights—
Well may mine be restless nights!
Treachery and violence,
Done against my people's rights—
Well may mine be restless nights!
When old Leinster's sons of fame,
Heads of many a warlike name,
Redden their victorious hilts
On the Gaul, my soul exults.
Heads of many a warlike name,
Redden their victorious hilts
On the Gaul, my soul exults.
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When the grim Gaul, who have come
Hither o'er the ocean foam,
From the fight victorious go,
Then my heart sinks deadly low.
Hither o'er the ocean foam,
From the fight victorious go,
Then my heart sinks deadly low.
Bless the blades our warriors draw,
God be with Clan Ranelagh!
But my soul is weak for fear,
Thinking of their danger here.
God be with Clan Ranelagh!
But my soul is weak for fear,
Thinking of their danger here.
Have them in thy holy keeping,
God be with them lying sleeping,
God be with them standing fighting,
Erin's foes in battle smiting!
God be with them lying sleeping,
God be with them standing fighting,
Erin's foes in battle smiting!
143
LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE.
Lone and weary as I wander'd
By the bleak shore of the sea,
Meditating and reflecting
On the world's hard destiny;
By the bleak shore of the sea,
Meditating and reflecting
On the world's hard destiny;
Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer,
In the quiet tide beneath,—
For on slumbering spray and blossom
Breathed not out of heaven a breath.
In the quiet tide beneath,—
For on slumbering spray and blossom
Breathed not out of heaven a breath.
On I went in sad dejection,
Careless where my footsteps bore,
Till a ruin'd church before me
Open'd wido its ancient door,—
Careless where my footsteps bore,
Till a ruin'd church before me
Open'd wido its ancient door,—
Till I stood before the portals,
Where of old were wont to be,
For the blind, the halt, and leper,
Alms and hospitality.
Where of old were wont to be,
For the blind, the halt, and leper,
Alms and hospitality.
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Still the ancient seat was standing,
Built against the buttress grey,
Where the clergy used to welcome
Weary travellers on their way.
Built against the buttress grey,
Where the clergy used to welcome
Weary travellers on their way.
There I sat me down in sadness,
'Neath my cheek I placed my hand,
Till the tears fell hot and briny
Down upon the grassy land.
'Neath my cheek I placed my hand,
Till the tears fell hot and briny
Down upon the grassy land.
There, I said in woeful sorrow,
Weeping bitterly the while,
Was a time when joy and gladness
Reign'd within this ruin'd pile;—
Weeping bitterly the while,
Was a time when joy and gladness
Reign'd within this ruin'd pile;—
Was a time when bells were tinkling,
Clergy preaching peace abroad,
Psalms a-singing, music ringing
Praises to the mighty God.
Clergy preaching peace abroad,
Psalms a-singing, music ringing
Praises to the mighty God.
Empty aisle, deserted chancel,
Tower tottering to your fall,
Many a storm since then has beaten
On the grey head of your wall!
Tower tottering to your fall,
Many a storm since then has beaten
On the grey head of your wall!
Many a bitter storm and tempest
Has your roof-tree turn'd away,
Since you first were form'd a temple
To the Lord of night and day.
Has your roof-tree turn'd away,
Since you first were form'd a temple
To the Lord of night and day.
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Holy house of ivied gables,
That wert once the country's pride,
Houseless now in weary wandering
Roam your inmates far and wide.
That wert once the country's pride,
Houseless now in weary wandering
Roam your inmates far and wide.
Lone you are to-day, and dismal,—
Joyful psalms no more are heard
Where, within your choir, her vesper
Screeches the cat-headed bird.
Joyful psalms no more are heard
Where, within your choir, her vesper
Screeches the cat-headed bird.
Ivy from your eaves is growing,
Nettles round your green hearth-stone,
Foxes howl, where, in your corners,
Dropping waters make their moan.
Nettles round your green hearth-stone,
Foxes howl, where, in your corners,
Dropping waters make their moan.
Where the lark to early matins
Used your clergy forth to call,
There, alas! no tongue is stirring,
Save the daw's upon the wall.
Used your clergy forth to call,
There, alas! no tongue is stirring,
Save the daw's upon the wall.
Refectory cold and empty,
Dormitory bleak and bare,
Where are now your pious uses,
Simple bed and frugal fare?
Dormitory bleak and bare,
Where are now your pious uses,
Simple bed and frugal fare?
Gone your abbot, rule and order,
Broken down your altar stones;
Nought see I beneath your shelter.
Save a heap of clayey bones.
Broken down your altar stones;
Nought see I beneath your shelter.
Save a heap of clayey bones.
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Oh! the hardship, oh! the hatred,
Tyranny, and cruel war,
Persecution and oppression,
That have left you as you are!
Tyranny, and cruel war,
Persecution and oppression,
That have left you as you are!
I myself once also prosper'd;—
Mine is, too, an alter'd plight;
Trouble, care, and age have left me
Good for nought but grief to-night
Mine is, too, an alter'd plight;
Trouble, care, and age have left me
Good for nought but grief to-night
Gone, my motion and my vigour,—
Gone, the use of eye and ear;
At my feet lie friends and children,
Powerless and corrupting here:
Gone, the use of eye and ear;
At my feet lie friends and children,
Powerless and corrupting here:
Woe is written on my visage,
In a nut my heart would lie—
Death's deliverance were welcome—
Father, let the old man die.
In a nut my heart would lie—
Death's deliverance were welcome—
Father, let the old man die.
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TO THE HARPER O'CONNELLAN.
Enchanter who reignest
Supreme o'er the North,
Who hast wiled the coy spirit
Of true music forth;
In vain Europe's minstrels
To honour aspire,
When thy swift slender fingers
Go forth on the wire!
Supreme o'er the North,
Who hast wiled the coy spirit
Of true music forth;
In vain Europe's minstrels
To honour aspire,
When thy swift slender fingers
Go forth on the wire!
There is no heart's desire
Can be felt by a king,
That thy hand cannot match
From the soul of the string,
By its conquering, capturing,
Magical sway,
For, charmer, thou stealest
Thy notes from a fay!
Can be felt by a king,
That thy hand cannot match
From the soul of the string,
By its conquering, capturing,
Magical sway,
For, charmer, thou stealest
Thy notes from a fay!
Enchanter, I say,—
For thy magical skill
Can soothe every sorrow,
And heal every ill:
Who hear thee they praise thee;
They weep while they praise;
For, charmer, from Fairyland
Fresh are thy lays!
For thy magical skill
Can soothe every sorrow,
And heal every ill:
Who hear thee they praise thee;
They weep while they praise;
For, charmer, from Fairyland
Fresh are thy lays!
148
GRACE NUGENT.
CAROLAN.
Brightest blossom of the Spring,
Grace, the sprightly girl I sing:
Grace, who bore the palm of mind
From all the rest of womankind.
Whomsoe'er the fates decree,
Happy fate! for life to be
Day and night my Coolun near,
Ache or pain need never fear!
Grace, the sprightly girl I sing:
Grace, who bore the palm of mind
From all the rest of womankind.
Whomsoe'er the fates decree,
Happy fate! for life to be
Day and night my Coolun near,
Ache or pain need never fear!
Her neck outdoes the stately swan,
Her radiant face the summer dawn:
Ah, happy thrice the youth for whom
The fates design that branch of bloom!
Pleasant are your words benign,
Rich those azure eyes of thine:
Ye who see my queen, beware
Those twisted links of golden hair!
Her radiant face the summer dawn:
Ah, happy thrice the youth for whom
The fates design that branch of bloom!
Pleasant are your words benign,
Rich those azure eyes of thine:
Ye who see my queen, beware
Those twisted links of golden hair!
This is what I fain would say
To the bird-voiced lady gay,—
Never yet conceived the heart
Joy which Grace cannot impart:
Fold of jewels! case of pearls!
Coolun of the circling curls!
More I say not, but no less
Drink you health and happiness!
To the bird-voiced lady gay,—
Never yet conceived the heart
Joy which Grace cannot impart:
Fold of jewels! case of pearls!
Coolun of the circling curls!
More I say not, but no less
Drink you health and happiness!
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MILD MABEL KELLY.
CAROLAN.
Whoever the youth who by Heaven's decree
Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright head of thine,
'Tis certain that he
From all sorrow is free
Till the day of his death, if a life so divine
Should not raise him in bliss above mortal degree:
Mild Mabel-ni-Kelly, bright Coolun of curls,
All stately and pure as the swan on the lake;
Her mouth of white teeth is a palace of pearls,
And the youth of the land are love-sick for her sake!
Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright head of thine,
'Tis certain that he
From all sorrow is free
Till the day of his death, if a life so divine
Should not raise him in bliss above mortal degree:
Mild Mabel-ni-Kelly, bright Coolun of curls,
All stately and pure as the swan on the lake;
Her mouth of white teeth is a palace of pearls,
And the youth of the land are love-sick for her sake!
No strain of the sweetest e'er heard in the land
That she knows not to sing, in a voice so enchanting,
That the cranes on the strand
Fall asleep where they stand;
Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne'er wanting
To shed its mild radiance o'er bosom or hand:
The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray,
More blue than her eye, human eye never saw,
Deceit never lurk'd in its beautiful ray,—
Dear lady, I drink to you, slainte go bragh!
That she knows not to sing, in a voice so enchanting,
That the cranes on the strand
Fall asleep where they stand;
Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne'er wanting
To shed its mild radiance o'er bosom or hand:
The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray,
More blue than her eye, human eye never saw,
Deceit never lurk'd in its beautiful ray,—
Dear lady, I drink to you, slainte go bragh!
150
THE CUP OF O'HARA.
CAROLAN.
Were I west in green Arran,
Or south in Glanmore,
Where the longships come laden
With claret in store;
Yet I'd rather than shiploads
Of claret, and ships,
Have your white cup, O'Hara,
Up full at my lips.
Or south in Glanmore,
Where the longships come laden
With claret in store;
Yet I'd rather than shiploads
Of claret, and ships,
Have your white cup, O'Hara,
Up full at my lips.
But why seek in numbers
Its virtues to tell,
When O'Hara's own chaplain
Has said, saying well,—
“Turlogh, bold son of Brian,
Sit ye down, boy, again,
Till we drain the great cupaun
In another health to Keane.”
Its virtues to tell,
When O'Hara's own chaplain
Has said, saying well,—
“Turlogh, bold son of Brian,
Sit ye down, boy, again,
Till we drain the great cupaun
In another health to Keane.”
151
THE FAIR HAIR'D GIRL.
IRISH SONG.
The sun has set, the stars are still,
The red moon hides behind the hill;
The tide has left the brown beach bare,
The birds have fled the upper air;
Upon her branch the lone cuckoo
Is chaunting still her sad adieu;
And you, my fair hair'd girl, must go
Across the salt-sea under woe!
The red moon hides behind the hill;
The tide has left the brown beach bare,
The birds have fled the upper air;
Upon her branch the lone cuckoo
Is chaunting still her sad adieu;
And you, my fair hair'd girl, must go
Across the salt-sea under woe!
I through love have learn'd three things,
Sorrow, sin and death it brings;
Yet day by day my heart within
Dares shame and sorrow, death and sin:
Maiden, you have aim'd the dart
Rankling in my ruin'd heart:
Maiden, may the God above
Grant you grace to grant me love!
Sorrow, sin and death it brings;
Yet day by day my heart within
Dares shame and sorrow, death and sin:
Maiden, you have aim'd the dart
Rankling in my ruin'd heart:
Maiden, may the God above
Grant you grace to grant me love!
Sweeter than the viol's string,
And the notes that blackbirds sing;
Brighter than the dewdrops rare
Is the maiden wondrous fair:
Like the silver swans at play
Is her neck, as bright as day!
Woe is me, that e'er my sight
Dwelt on charms so deadly bright!
And the notes that blackbirds sing;
Brighter than the dewdrops rare
Is the maiden wondrous fair:
Like the silver swans at play
Is her neck, as bright as day!
Woe is me, that e'er my sight
Dwelt on charms so deadly bright!
152
PASTHEEN FINN.
IRISH RUSTIC SONG.
Oh, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight,
Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright;
Like the apple blossom her bosom white,
And her neck like the swan's, on a March morn bright!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright;
Like the apple blossom her bosom white,
And her neck like the swan's, on a March morn bright!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen!
Her cheeks are red as the rose's sheen,
But my lips have tasted no more, I ween,
Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Her cheeks are red as the rose's sheen,
But my lips have tasted no more, I ween,
Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
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Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee,
Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree,
With my fair Pastheen upon my knee,
'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree,
With my fair Pastheen upon my knee,
'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Nine nights I lay in longing and pain,
Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain,
Thinking to see you, love, once again;
But whistle and call were all in vain!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain,
Thinking to see you, love, once again;
But whistle and call were all in vain!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
I'll leave my people, both friend and foe;
From all the girls in the world I'll go;
But from you, sweetheart, oh, never! oh, no!
'Till I lie in the coffin, stretch'd cold and low!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And, oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
From all the girls in the world I'll go;
But from you, sweetheart, oh, never! oh, no!
'Till I lie in the coffin, stretch'd cold and low!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And, oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
154
MOLLY ASTORE.
IRISH SONG.
Oh, Mary dear, oh, Mary fair,
Oh, branch of generous stem,
White blossom of the banks of Nair,
Though lilies grow on them!
You've left me sick at heart for love,
So faint I cannot see,
The candle swims the board above,
I'm drunk for love of thee!
Oh, stately stem of maiden pride,
My woe it is, and pain,
That I, thus sever'd from thy side,
The long night must remain!
Oh, branch of generous stem,
White blossom of the banks of Nair,
Though lilies grow on them!
You've left me sick at heart for love,
So faint I cannot see,
The candle swims the board above,
I'm drunk for love of thee!
Oh, stately stem of maiden pride,
My woe it is, and pain,
That I, thus sever'd from thy side,
The long night must remain!
Through all the towns of Innisfail
I've wander'd far and wide;
But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,
From Carlow to Kilbride,
'Mong lords and dames of high degree,
Where'er my feet have gone,
My Mary, one to equal thee
I've never look'd upon;
I live in darkness and in doubt
Whene'er my love's away,
But, were the blessed sun put out,
Her shadow would make day!
I've wander'd far and wide;
But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,
From Carlow to Kilbride,
'Mong lords and dames of high degree,
Where'er my feet have gone,
My Mary, one to equal thee
I've never look'd upon;
I live in darkness and in doubt
Whene'er my love's away,
But, were the blessed sun put out,
Her shadow would make day!
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'Tis she indeed, young bud of bliss,
And gentle as she's fair.
Though lily-white her bosom is,
And sunny-bright her hair,
And dewy-azure her blue eye,
And rosy-red her cheek,—
Yet brighter she in modesty,
More beautifully meek!
The world's wise men from north to south
Can never cure my pain;
But one kiss from her honey mouth
Would make me whole again!
And gentle as she's fair.
Though lily-white her bosom is,
And sunny-bright her hair,
And dewy-azure her blue eye,
And rosy-red her cheek,—
Yet brighter she in modesty,
More beautifully meek!
The world's wise men from north to south
Can never cure my pain;
But one kiss from her honey mouth
Would make me whole again!
156
CASHEL OF MUNSTER.
IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD.
I'd wed you without herds, without money, or rich array,
And I'd wed you on a dewy morning at day dawn grey;
My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away
In Cashel town, though the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day;
And I'd wed you on a dewy morning at day dawn grey;
My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away
In Cashel town, though the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day;
Oh, fair maid, remember the green hill side,
Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide;
Time now, has worn me; my locks are turn'd to grey,
The year is scarce and I am poor, but send me not love, away!
Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide;
Time now, has worn me; my locks are turn'd to grey,
The year is scarce and I am poor, but send me not love, away!
Oh, deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl,
Oh, deem not my birth was as the birth of the churl;
Marry me, and prove me, and say soon you will,
That noble blood is written on my right side still!
Oh, deem not my birth was as the birth of the churl;
Marry me, and prove me, and say soon you will,
That noble blood is written on my right side still!
157
My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white,
No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight!
But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare though I be and lone
Oh, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone.
No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight!
But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare though I be and lone
Oh, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone.
Oh, my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are,
And, oh, my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear:
“I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,
And, oh, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!”
And, oh, my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear:
“I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,
And, oh, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!”
158
THE COOLUN.
IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD.
Oh, had you seen the Coolun,
Walking down by the cuckoo's street,
With the dew of the meadow shining
On her milk-white twinkling feet,
My love she is, and my coleen oge,
And she dwells in Bal'nagar;
And she bears the palm of beauty bright
From the fairest that in Erin are.
Walking down by the cuckoo's street,
With the dew of the meadow shining
On her milk-white twinkling feet,
My love she is, and my coleen oge,
And she dwells in Bal'nagar;
And she bears the palm of beauty bright
From the fairest that in Erin are.
In Bal'nagar is the Coolun,
Like the berry on the bough her cheek;
Bright beauty dwells for ever
On her fair neck and ringlets sleek:
Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft musie
Than the lark or thrush at dawn,
Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing
Farewell to the setting sun.
Like the berry on the bough her cheek;
Bright beauty dwells for ever
On her fair neck and ringlets sleek:
Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft musie
Than the lark or thrush at dawn,
Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing
Farewell to the setting sun.
Rise up, my boy! make ready
My horse, for I forth would ride,
To follow the modest damsel,
Where she walks on the green hill side:
For, ever since our youth were we plighted,
In faith, troth, and wedlock true—
She is sweeter to me nine times over
Than organ or cuckoo!
My horse, for I forth would ride,
To follow the modest damsel,
Where she walks on the green hill side:
For, ever since our youth were we plighted,
In faith, troth, and wedlock true—
She is sweeter to me nine times over
Than organ or cuckoo!
159
For, ever since my childhood
I loved the fair and darling child;
But our people came between us,
And with lucre our pure love defiled:
Oh, my woe it is, and my bitter pain,
And I weep it night and day,
That the coleen bawn of my early love
Is torn from my heart away.
I loved the fair and darling child;
But our people came between us,
And with lucre our pure love defiled:
Oh, my woe it is, and my bitter pain,
And I weep it night and day,
That the coleen bawn of my early love
Is torn from my heart away.
Sweetheart and faithful treasure,
Be constant still, and true;
Nor for want of herds and houses
Leave one who would ne'er leave you:
I'll pledge you the blessed Bible,
Without and eke within,
That the faithful God will provide for us,
Without thanks to kith or kin.
Be constant still, and true;
Nor for want of herds and houses
Leave one who would ne'er leave you:
I'll pledge you the blessed Bible,
Without and eke within,
That the faithful God will provide for us,
Without thanks to kith or kin.
Oh, love, do you remember
When we lay all night alone,
Beneath the ash in the winter-storm,
When the oak wood round did groan?
No shelter then from the blast had we,
The bitter blast or sleet,
But your gown to wrap about our heads,
And my coat round our feet.
When we lay all night alone,
Beneath the ash in the winter-storm,
When the oak wood round did groan?
No shelter then from the blast had we,
The bitter blast or sleet,
But your gown to wrap about our heads,
And my coat round our feet.
160
YOUGHALL HARBOUR,
IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD.
One Sunday morning, into Youghall walking,
I met a maiden upon the way;
Her little mouth sweet as fairy music,
Her soft cheeks blushing like dawn of day!
I laid a bold hand upon her bosom,
And ask'd a kiss: but she answer'd, “No:
Fair sir, be gentle; do not tear my mantle;
'Tis none in Erin my grief can know.
I met a maiden upon the way;
Her little mouth sweet as fairy music,
Her soft cheeks blushing like dawn of day!
I laid a bold hand upon her bosom,
And ask'd a kiss: but she answer'd, “No:
Fair sir, be gentle; do not tear my mantle;
'Tis none in Erin my grief can know.
“'Tis but a little hour since I left Youghall.
And my love forbade me to return;
And now my weary way I wander
Into Cappoquin, a poor girl forlorn:
Then do not tempt me; for, alas! I dread them
Who with tempting proffers teach girls to roam,
Who'd first deceive us, then faithless leave us,
And send us shame-faced and bare-foot home.”
And my love forbade me to return;
And now my weary way I wander
Into Cappoquin, a poor girl forlorn:
Then do not tempt me; for, alas! I dread them
Who with tempting proffers teach girls to roam,
Who'd first deceive us, then faithless leave us,
And send us shame-faced and bare-foot home.”
“My heart and hand here! I mean you marriage!
I have loved like you and known love's pain;
And if you turn back now to Youghall Harbour,
You ne'er shall want house or home again:
You shall have a lace cap like any lady,
Cloak and capuchin, too, to keep you warm,
And if God please, maybe, a little baby,
By and bye, to nestle within your arm.”
I have loved like you and known love's pain;
And if you turn back now to Youghall Harbour,
You ne'er shall want house or home again:
You shall have a lace cap like any lady,
Cloak and capuchin, too, to keep you warm,
And if God please, maybe, a little baby,
By and bye, to nestle within your arm.”
161
CEAN DUBH DEELISH.
Put your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance,
Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining,
Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,
For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;
But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!
Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,
Your darling black head my heart above;
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance,
Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
162
BOATMAN'S HYMN.
Bark that bear me through foam and squall,
You in the storm are my castle wall:
Though the sea should redden from bottom to top
From tiller to mast she takes no drop;
You in the storm are my castle wall:
Though the sea should redden from bottom to top
From tiller to mast she takes no drop;
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail go leor.
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail go leor.
She dresses herself, and goes gliding on,
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn;
For God has bless'd her, gunnel and whale,
And oh! if you saw her stretch out to the gale,
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn;
For God has bless'd her, gunnel and whale,
And oh! if you saw her stretch out to the gale,
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.
Whillan,
ahoy! old heart of stone,
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone,
Answer me well—on the bursting brine
Saw you ever a bark like mine?
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone,
Answer me well—on the bursting brine
Saw you ever a bark like mine?
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.
163
Says Whillan,—“Since first I was made of stone,
I have look'd abroad o'er the beach alone—
But till to-day, on the bursting brine,
Saw I never a bark like thine,”
I have look'd abroad o'er the beach alone—
But till to-day, on the bursting brine,
Saw I never a bark like thine,”
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.
“God of the air!” the seamen shout,
When they see us tossing the brine about:
“Give us the shelter of strand or rock,
Or through and through us she goes with a shock!”
When they see us tossing the brine about:
“Give us the shelter of strand or rock,
Or through and through us she goes with a shock!”
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store,
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail go leor!
Wherry aroon, my land and store,
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail go leor!
164
THE DEAR OLD AIR.
Misfortune's train may chase our joys,
But not our love;
And I those pensive looks will prize,
The smiles of joy above:
Your tender looks of love shall still
Delight and console;
Even though your eyes the tear-drops fill
Beyond your love's control.
But not our love;
And I those pensive looks will prize,
The smiles of joy above:
Your tender looks of love shall still
Delight and console;
Even though your eyes the tear-drops fill
Beyond your love's control.
Of troubles past we will not speak,
Or future woe:
Nor mark, thus leaning cheek to cheek,
The stealing tear-drops flow:
But I'll sing you the dear old Irish air,
Soothing and low,
You loved so well when gay and fair,
You won me long ago.
Or future woe:
Nor mark, thus leaning cheek to cheek,
The stealing tear-drops flow:
But I'll sing you the dear old Irish air,
Soothing and low,
You loved so well when gay and fair,
You won me long ago.
165
THE LAP-FUL OF NUTS.
Whene'er I see soft hazel eyes
And nut-brown curls,
I think of those bright days I spent
Among the Limerick girls;
When up through Cratla woods I went,
Nutting with thee;
And we pluck'd the glossy clustering fruit
From many a bending tree.
And nut-brown curls,
I think of those bright days I spent
Among the Limerick girls;
When up through Cratla woods I went,
Nutting with thee;
And we pluck'd the glossy clustering fruit
From many a bending tree.
Beneath the hazel boughs we sat,
Thou, love, and I,
And the gather'd nuts lay in thy lap,
Beneath thy downcast eye:
But little we thought of the store we'd won,
I, love, or thou;
For our hearts were full, and we dare not own
The love that's spoken now.
Thou, love, and I,
And the gather'd nuts lay in thy lap,
Beneath thy downcast eye:
But little we thought of the store we'd won,
I, love, or thou;
For our hearts were full, and we dare not own
The love that's spoken now.
Oh, there's wars for willing hearts in Spain,
And high Germanie!
And I'll come back, ere long, again,
With knightly fame and fee:
And I'll come back, if I ever come back,
Faithful to thee,
That sat with thy white lap full of nuts
Beneath the hazel tree.
And high Germanie!
And I'll come back, ere long, again,
With knightly fame and fee:
And I'll come back, if I ever come back,
Faithful to thee,
That sat with thy white lap full of nuts
Beneath the hazel tree.
166
MARY'S WAKING.
Soft be the sleep and sweet the dreams,
And bright be the awaking,
Of mary this mild April morn,
On my pale vigil breaking:
May weariness and wakefulness
And unrepaid endeavour.
And aching eyes like mine this day,
Be far from her for ever!
And bright be the awaking,
Of mary this mild April morn,
On my pale vigil breaking:
May weariness and wakefulness
And unrepaid endeavour.
And aching eyes like mine this day,
Be far from her for ever!
The quiet of the opening dawn,
The freshness of the morning,
Be with her through the cheerful day,
Till peaceful eve returning
Shall put an end to household cares
And dutiful employment.
And bring the hours of genial mirth
And innocent enjoyment.
The freshness of the morning,
Be with her through the cheerful day,
Till peaceful eve returning
Shall put an end to household cares
And dutiful employment.
And bring the hours of genial mirth
And innocent enjoyment.
And whether in the virgin choir,
A joyous sylph, she dances,
Or o'er the smiling circle sheds
Her wit's sweet influences;
May he by favcuring fate assign'd
Her partner or companion,
Be one that with an angel's mind
Is fit to hold communion.
A joyous sylph, she dances,
Or o'er the smiling circle sheds
Her wit's sweet influences;
May he by favcuring fate assign'd
Her partner or companion,
Be one that with an angel's mind
Is fit to hold communion.
167
Ah me! the wish is hard to frame!
But should some youth, more favour'd
Achieve the happiness which I
Have fruitlessly endeavour'd,
God send them love and length of days,
And health and wealth abounding,
And long around their hearth to hear
Their children's voices sounding!
But should some youth, more favour'd
Achieve the happiness which I
Have fruitlessly endeavour'd,
God send them love and length of days,
And health and wealth abounding,
And long around their hearth to hear
Their children's voices sounding!
Be still, be still, rebellious heart;
If he have fairly won her,
To bless their union I am bound
In duty and in honour:
But, out alas! 'tis all in vain;
I love her still too dearly
To pray for blessings which I feel
So hard to give sincerely.
If he have fairly won her,
To bless their union I am bound
In duty and in honour:
But, out alas! 'tis all in vain;
I love her still too dearly
To pray for blessings which I feel
So hard to give sincerely.
168
HOPELESS LOVE.
Since hopeless of thy love I go,
Some little mark of pity show;
And only one kind parting look bestow.
Some little mark of pity show;
And only one kind parting look bestow.
One parting look of pity mild
On him, through starless tempest wild,
Who lonely hence to-night must go, exiled.
On him, through starless tempest wild,
Who lonely hence to-night must go, exiled.
But even rejected love can warm
The heart through night and storm:
And unrelenting though they be,
Thine eyes beam life on me.
The heart through night and storm:
And unrelenting though they be,
Thine eyes beam life on me.
And I will bear that look benign
Within this darkly-troubled breast to shine,
Though never, never can thyself, ah me, be mine!
Within this darkly-troubled breast to shine,
Though never, never can thyself, ah me, be mine!
169
THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND.
OLD IRISH SONG.
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
Uileacan dubh O!
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;
Uileacan dubh O!
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
And her forest paths, in summer, are by falling waters fann'd,
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i'the yellow sand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Uileacan dubh O!
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;
Uileacan dubh O!
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
And her forest paths, in summer, are by falling waters fann'd,
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i'the yellow sand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curl'd he is and ringletted, and plaited to the knee.
Uileacan dubh O!
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea;
Uileacan dubh O!
And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Uileacan dubh O!
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea;
Uileacan dubh O!
And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
170
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,
Uileacan dubh O!
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,
Uileacan dubh O!
The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,
And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland,
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i'the forests grand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Uileacan dubh O!
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,
Uileacan dubh O!
The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,
And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland,
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i'the forests grand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
| Lays of the Western Gael, and Other Poems | |